Freedom Forever
by finnixfire
Summary: A Dean Story


**Note: This starts off as canon but deviates from the plot.**

**Prompts: Canonly clever character being outwitted, 2112 words, Catch-11 and telescope. Chaser 2 Puddlemere for QLFC**

**.**

**Freedom Forever**

The decision had been spontaneous, so there was was absolutely no chance of any other person being in the know. Dean thought he preferred it this way. He had left his mum a letter, telling her not to worry, that she was safe as long as he wasn't around. That they couldn't trace her unless they broke into Dean's mind, and he wasn't planning on being found.

He had meant it, too. He had always been a fan of history, and once, he had read the story of a young boy in a freedom struggle who had sworn not to be caught by enemies. The night he had ran from home, Dean had also taken an oath never to be caught by the Death Eaters. He'd remain free of their clutches, whether alive or dead.

So yes, Dean preferred his mum or Seamus to not even have a chance to talk him out of it, because they would have tried, and Dean knew he would have caved in to the arguments.

He preferred he himself had not had a chance to change his mind. As soon as the thought had struck him, Dean had stuffed a change of clothes, a couple bars of soap, a wad of toilet paper, a tiny radio his Mum had bought him for his fifteenth birthday, and any non-perishable food he could get his hands on in a rucksack, knowing fully well that the supplies wouldn't last forever. As he had penned a quick note and stuck it to the door of his room, right below the plaque that read: _Dean, Artist Jr._, he had felt his eyes grow wet. He had dashed into his room to shove in a few pencils and small sketchpad—he could allow himself this one item of comfort. Then, without turning back, he had walked out of the home he had known all his life.

A week later found Dean in unfamliar woods. He sat on a flat rock, his hand moving quickly as he copied the majestic scene of the flowing stream in front of him onto paper. His supplies were running low and his clothes were grimy: his other pair was currently washed and drying on another rock a few feet away. He had been afraid of doing magic in the fear it would give him away.

Dean would not admit it to himself, even, but a week of loneliness was getting to him, after spending six years in a dorm with all too-chatty Seamus at Hogwarts and the cacophony of the toddlers his mum babysat at home. Art was his only comfort, but he would soon be out of paper, and for some reason, that scared him more than his rapidly depleting food.

A drop of water fell onto his sketchpad, followed by another, and Dean rushed to pack his art supplies and his half-dry clothes. When he reached the cave he had found the day before, Dean was already drenched to skin and shivering like mad. He cursed himself for not having thought ahead in time, for not bringing a tent—they had one in the attic—or any potions. He could already feel a cold coming on.

There was no going back now, though. He had to live with the consequences of a half-baked plan.

Day turned to night, and his sickness worsened. He had thrown up the little he had managed to eat. He was burning up now, phasing in and out of consciousness. Had any Death Eater turned up then, Dean wouldn't have had the strength to stand up and raise a wand, let alone defend himself.

The next two days brought everything from painful agony to blissful unconsciousness. Dean didn't usually get sick, so he wasn't sure how a simple, albeit cold, rain had managed to do the job. Perhaps some of the food he had eaten might have gone bad?

It was purely by chance that someone stumbled onto the cave. Dean woke up to the smell of warm food, his throat and nose somehow unclogged, and for a moment, he thought he was back home. That was until he opened his eyes, and a wet cough escaped him, making a man turn to look at Dean. The younger boy scrambled back, his hand seeking his wand, and a moment later, he was pointing it at the man.

"Relax, kid. I'm a Muggleborn on the run, too."

Dean found himself relaxing a bit, but he didn't lower his wand. "How did you know I was a wizard and not a homeless Muggle?"

The man gave a pointed look towards his clothes, and Dean looked down. "The Hogwarts robes gave it away, didn't they?"

Indeed, he had his robes on, which he must have put on somewhere during the sickness-haze. It was the only thing he had thought to bring along apart from shirts and pants, the thought that autumn would give way to winter sooner rather than later never entering his mind.

"I'm Ted, Ted Tonks," the man introduced, crouching down and extending his hand. Dean shook it, still wary. "That, over there, is Dirk Cresswell," he added, and Dean noticed the shaggy brown mane sticking out of a sleeping bag that lay further inside the cave. "It's getting late. I was keeping the first watch. He needed to sleep, anyways."

Dean looked around, then. They must have been here for quite some time now. There was some sort of soup stewing in an earthen pot over a fire near the mouth of the cave, and a few potions were laid out near Dean. A couple rucksacks sat across from him. He found himself was sitting on another sleeping bag.

"You got a bit fussy when I tried to get you in, so…" He gave an apologetic look, and Dean found himself returning an incredulous one back.

"You give me your sleeping bag, when you yourself could have been comfortable, and I'm guessing you gave me the medicines, too?" He said, pointing at the potions. Tonks nodded, and Dean let out a laugh. "And you're sorry? Honestly, thank you, Mr Tonks. Oh, and I'm Dean."

The man gave him a wry smile. "Call me Ted. Clean up a bit, the soup will be ready soon. It's still raining outside, though. Oh, and it's alright to use magic, at least for now."

Dean did just that, washing his hands and face. He couldn't believe he had been lucky enough for these men to stumble upon him. A strange feeling of relief filled him, and Dean felt safe.

Ted woke Dirk up, and they shared the food. The conversation started with Ted and Dirk telling how they had run off together—they had known each other since Hogwarts—and then Dean told them about his stupid, unthought out plan that had ended with him in a sick mess until the men had found him, totally by chance.

"We had just Apparated here, and the rain started all too quickly to set up the tent," said Ted. Dean had found that Dirk wasn't very talkative, but Ted was very chatty.

"You have a tent?" Dean couldn't help but ask, looking around to see if he could spot it in the cave.

"Yes, in that bag over there, all shrunk," confirmed Ted, pointing at one of the rucksacks. "Well, Dirk spotted the cave, and we thought to stay in there for a night. Found you passed out and burning like hell."

* * *

They had been together for a while now. Everything was covered in a layer of whiteness, and Dean was now proficient in the spell that removed his boot-prints in the snow.

It was Dirk who told them about Potterwatch — he had actually _whoop_-ed in joy when Dean had shown the two men his tiny radio, lamenting about how his had broken, and the boy had let the usually-silent man have it. Potterwatch was a relief; now they at least knew what was happening. When Dean heard about how _Voldemort_ had become a taboo, though, his blood boiled.

It had taken him so long to get over the irrational fear, Ted, who had become a father figure to the young man, coercing him to use the name. A thought entered his mind, then, and Dean turned to the other two men.

"I have an idea," started Dean, and the fact that the other two looked back at him with sincere eyes, taking him seriously, still baffled Dean. He flusters a bit but continues. "Vol—You-know-who thinks he is being clever, that he will catch the Order members who take his name. I—I think we all know we are living on borrowed time. There's no assurance whether we'll live to see another day." Ted nodded, as did Dirk a moment later. "I say we go down fighting and take a few Death Eaters with us."

"That… is actually a good idea," Ted began, "but are you sure you want to throw your life away like this, lad? This will mean assured death. We still have some hope of coming out of this alive right now."

"Do we?" Dirk asked, a harsh laugh escaping him.

Ted shook his head and smiled wryly. "Not really, no. We don't."

Dean forced a smile on his face, a sense of impending doom befalling him. "Well, we need a better plan, then. I learned after the last time."

It broke the tension a bit, and they started plotting. Ted had brought with him a telescope—his now-wife had broken his by mistake at Hogwarts and had brought him a new one as an apology. It had been the start of their friendship, and Ted had brought the now-old and battered thing along as a token of their love. Dean was made in-charge of lookout, the older men claiming they had a wider arsenal of spells, more practice, and lesser future years than him. The other two would summon the Death Eaters by using the taboo-word while Dean monitor the situation. In case he felt the men were being overwhelmed, he was to give a signal (a bird-call), and they would all Apparate out to a pre-set location.

It was a crude plan, but it was the best they could do with three wizards who had on them just their wands.

The first attempt went smoothly, and their faith in the plan increased. The next three went just as well, the mishaps small if at all. The men had taken down two Death Eaters and five 'Snatchers' in all, and it was good progress.

The fifth time, the snatchers had with them another victim. It was a girl Dean recognised from Hogwarts. She was in her uniform, too, and with a start Dean realised the Christmas vacations must have started. Had they kidnapped her from the station itself?

Dean turned his telescope away from the girl and towards where Dirk was fighting. He couldn't see Ted, and Dean panicked, exhaling slowly when he finally found the man leaning against a tree-trunk. He seemed injured.

Even if Dean gave the signal now, Ted didn't look in a position to Apparate. And Dean couldn't leave the young girl's fate to those monsters, either.

Decision made, Dean got down from the tree he had been sitting in and twisted on the spot, Apparating near Ted. Very softly, he called out the now-unconscious man's name. When he didn't respond, Dean turned away, and quick as flash, aimed a stunner at one of the masked man who Dirk was duelling. The next moment, two snatchers turned their wands at him, one of them grinning maniacally.

Dean fought the best he could, but he could feel himself getting tired. Dirk disarmed and bound his last opponent, and as he turned to help Dean, the younger boy gestured towards the girl who was leaning against the same tree where Ted lay. Dirk nodded and moved, but the split-second had cost Dean. Now disarmed, he was at the mercy of the snatchers.

He turned his gaze to where Dirk was now, supporting the girl. The older man's gaze said it all—it was a real Catch-22. If he came to help Dean, they would all surely be defeated and whisked-off to Merlin knew where. If he didn't, Dean would be taken away.

The decision was easier for Dean. One life lost was better than three.

Yet, Dean had swore to himself that he wouldn't let himself be caught; that he would rather die. In one smooth motion, he pulled out the knife he had at his waist, and with a precision that had come from chopping roots and tree-barks for all these months, Dean slit his own throat.


End file.
